


error

by ZombieBabs



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Minor Violence, Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 16:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15271839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieBabs/pseuds/ZombieBabs
Summary: An error message, angry red and insistent, fills Connor’s field of vision.He blinks, but diagnostics reveal no malfunction. And yet, the error message persists.It buzzes like an old neon sign, refusing to be ignored.





	error

Connor shakes his head, dislodging nothing but stray flakes of snow.

An error message, angry red and insistent, fills Connor’s field of vision.

He blinks, but diagnostics reveal no malfunction. The error message persists.

“Connor?”

Connor’s head jerks up. “I’m listening.”

Markus’s mismatched eyes narrow, assessing. “Are you okay?”

Connor clamps down on his automatic response. He may be a machine, but he does experience emotion. He is capable now, since his deviancy, of feeling something other than ‘okay.’ “It’s nothing.”

An RK200—an advanced prototype like Connor—Markus was designed to be attuned to signs of distress. While Connor has no heartbeat to monitor, no breath to give him away, Connor has to deny himself the urge to straighten the cuffs of his jacket as he weathers Markus’s stare. 

Finding nothing, Markus smiles and turns back toward the camp. “Like I said, it’s temporary, but it’s home. You’re welcome to stay.”

Temporary. Until Congress can establish amendments to the United States Constitution, amendments giving androids the same rights as humans. Connor does not have to refer to previous civil rights movements throughout history to know the ambiguous definition of temporary.

“Hank—Lieutenant Anderson—offered me a place in his home.” Connor frowns. “Is it wrong for me to stay with him? To want to stay with him, instead of my own people? When so many of our own are suffering?”

“You’re not the only one with family to go back home to,” Markus says. “The humans are trickling back into Detroit, and not all of them despise us.”

Months ago, during one of his first investigations as the android sent by Cyberlife, Connor handled a tablet in the bedroom of a human girl. He watched her hug an android to her, watched her smile and declare the android to be her friend. If Daniel hadn’t become deviant, if he hadn’t shot those people, if he hadn’t held Emma hostage on that roof, would his family have welcomed him home?

Inside Connor’s mind palace, Daniel glares at him. Thirium hemorrhages from his body, from the holes blasted through him by snipers’ rifles. “They lied to me. They were going to replace me.”

Daniel’s voice modulator stutters. The light behind his ocular components fades. “ _You_ lied to me, Connor.”

The error message buzzes like an old neon sign.

“You sure you’re okay, Connor?”

Connor blinks himself back to the present. “I’m functional.”

“That’s not what I asked.” When Connor doesn’t say anything, Markus continues. “Look, if you’re worried about staying with the Lieutenant, don’t. Go home, rest. Enjoy your freedom. Jericho will still be here if you change your mind.”

“Thank you, Markus.”

Markus throws his arm over Connor’s shoulders. He changes their direction and steers Connor toward one of the tents. “Before you leave, I want to introduce you to some people. You’ve already met them, but I figured you’d want to talk now that you aren’t actively chasing down deviants.”

Inside the tent are the two Traci models from the Eden club. The blue haired Traci smiles a wry smile and holds out her hand for Connor to take, a gesture of goodwill.

The error message fades away into nothing.

Connor takes her hand and smiles.

 

Connor stands behind Lieutenant Hank Anderson in the office of Captain Jeffrey Fowler. Hank bends over and slams both hands onto the desk. “Come on, Jeffrey! The kid’s going insane doing nothing. We’ve got too much shit on our hands. The least you can do is put him to work!”

“My hands are tied, Lieutenant. Do you know how much trouble this precinct would be in if I started handing out badges to any android that walked in here?”

“He’s not just any android, Jeffrey. He’s a damn good detective. You know that.”

Captain Fowler spares Connor a glance. “I’m sorry, Connor. There’s really nothing I can do.”

Connor nods, despite the physical sensation of something sinking in a gut he doesn’t have. “Thank you, Captain. I won’t take up anymore of your time.”

Connor looks at Hank, but Hanks waves him off, still glaring determinedly at Captain Fowler. “A consultant. You could hire him on as a consultant.”

Captain Fowler sighs, exasperated. “He doesn’t have any paperwork, Hank. Surely, you’re not suggesting I hire him under the table?”

Hank opens his mouth, but before he can say anything to get himself in trouble—more trouble, perhaps—Connor says, “I volunteer.”

Both men look at Connor.

Connor shifts from one foot to the other. “You don’t have to pay me. I volunteer.”

Captain Fowler looks Connor up and down. “You understand what you’re saying, Connor?”

Connor nods. “I would gladly sign a document stating as much. This is,” Connor pauses, eyes flickering toward Hank, “This is what I want.”

Captain Fowler lifts both hands. “Fine. Fine! You can sit at your old desk. But if I hear one bit of trouble from you,” Fowler glares at Hank, “from _either_ of you, you’re both out of here, got it? Now get out of my office. And close the door on your way out.”

Hank claps Connor on his shoulder before stepping out of Captain Fowler’s office. He gets half-way over the threshold before he stops and points at Captain Fowler. “You won’t regret this, Jeffrey.”

Captain Fowler rolls his eyes. He pulls a tablet toward himself. “Yeah, yeah.”

Connor hesitates. Captain Fowler looks up, an eyebrow raised, impatient.

“Thank you, Captain.” Connor ducks out of the office before the other man can respond. He hastens his step to catch up with Hank, who grins at him. 

“It ain’t detective, but consultant’s not too shabby, either.”

“I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” Connor says.

Hank shakes his head. “You kiddin’ me? The department’s lucky to have you. Especially now.”

Now. Hank doesn’t mention it, but he doesn’t have to. The station half-empty, the department depleted of all android staff—secretarial, janitorial, and officers, alike. Leaving behind an overworked, exhausted, human police force.

Hank falls into his chair, the bearings groaning under the abuse. Connor sits much more delicately, his hands folded in his lap, two feet flat on the floor. The desk is blank, just as it was when he was the android sent by Cyberlife, when he had no personal effects of his own. Or the desire to own any personal effects. Now, he stares at it and frowns at how barren it looks, compared to desks occupied by his human colleagues.

Hank eyes Connor, frowning at the spinning yellow of Connor’s LED. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get there.”

Connor frowns.

The error message.

Connor runs a diagnostic.

Nothing.

After the first error, after returning to Hank’s house from Jericho, Connor ran an in-depth analysis. He found nothing then, as well, and when the error hadn’t returned, he’d convinced himself it wasn’t important, that it was an inconsequential glitch.

The error now fills his vision, refusing to be ignored.

“Connor?”

“I’m fine!”

Hank leans back in his chair, taken off guard by the defensiveness of Connor’s voice. “Never said you weren’t.”

Connor stands, the chair rolling out from under him into the aisle. “Would you like coffee, Lieutenant? I’ll make you some.”

“The hell, Connor? I’m perfectly capable of getting it myself.”

Connor throws a smile over his shoulder, one he hopes is convincing. “My treat.”

His knees malfunction along the way. They refuse to hold him up, as they were intended. He sways to one side before catching himself on the wall. He runs another diagnostic, but his knees are in perfect working order. 

Connor pushes himself away from the wall and nearly overbalances. A human hand grips Connor’s shoulder, keeping him steady.

“Hey, hey, you need a hand?”

Connor looks up to see Officer Chris Miller.

“Connor? Almost didn’t recognize you without the uniform. What are you doing here? And why are you walking like a newborn baby deer?”

Connor lifts the corners of his mouth in an attempt to smile. “Hello, Chris. I’m volunteering at the station as a consultant, for the time being. Until I can take the exam to become a detective.”

Chris nods. “Right, once everything settles down.”

Once everything settles down. The phrase has become placeholder for many things, not least the chaos caused by the Android Uprising. It’s a phrase Markus uses with hope, for their future. For the rights they’ve fought for and will continue to fight for.

“I was about to make coffee for the Lieutenant,” Connor says.

Chris nods. “Alright. I’ll let you go. Good to see you, Connor.”

Connor waits for Chris to be on his way before attempting to walk. His knees cooperate, allowing him to enter the break room with no further difficulties.

Except for the error message.

Connor tries to swat the message away like a physical annoyance, but like any other directive, the text resides solely within his mind palace.

Connor operates the coffee machine, ignoring the error as best he can. He sits on the worn sofa as the coffee percolates.

“What’s this plastic piece of shit doing here?”

Detective Gavin Reed shuffles into the break room. Connor blinks around the message, but no other officers follow Reed into the room.

Connor frowns. Is the question rhetorical or does Reed mean for Connor to answer? How best not to antagonize the detective?

Connor stares forward. “Hello, Detective Reed.”

“Hello your goddamned self,” Reed mutters. He walks further into the room and stops short when he sees the coffee brewing. “Fuck.”

“It should be ready in one point five minutes.”

Reed presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Shoulda stopped at Starbucks, but no, everything in this whole goddamned city is fuckin’ closed.”

Because of Uprising. Because of the riots. Because of the evacuation order. Because of the camps. “I apologize, Detective Reed.”

Reed glares at him. “Fuck off.”

The error message buzzes. Something physical sits inside Connor’s chest, behind what would be a human’s rib cage. Connor shifts, trying to dislodge it, but it doesn’t move.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Reed asks. “Your LED’s gone red. I hurt your fuckin’ feelings or something?”

“Something is inside me,” Connor says. Whatever it is, it’s growing, bigger, heavier. The error message takes up Connor’s entire field of vision.

“Something—the fuck?”

Connor places his palm flat over his chest, feeling for movement. How could something have gotten inside him?

How is he supposed to get it out?

“Who let you back in the station, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out there with your robo-Messiah or whatever?”

He’ll have to open up his chest. He’ll have to remove biocomponents in order to get to the heavy, foreign mass inside him. Connor pulls at his tie, loosening it. His fingers toy with the top-most button of his shirt.

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?”

Connor blinks. He shakes his head. The break room isn’t the correct place. Nor is it the correct time, with Hank still waiting for his coffee. “I apologize, Detective Reed.”

Connor ignores the last drippings of the coffeemaker as the scalding liquid burns the synthetic skin of his hand. He pours a cup and prepares it the way Hank likes—black, sweetened with 14% off his daily sugar intake. Reed watches Connor with wary eyes as Connor takes the mug and holds it protectively in both hands, careful not to let it spill as he strides purposefully out of the break room.

 

Connor stares at the television. Basketball players move across the court, but Connor pays them no attention. The game is old, a recording Hank hasn’t yet deleted from his DVR. Connor could quote the statistics to Hank, but after the first blunder Connor made, back when he and Hank first met, Connor refrains. Hank, sitting at the other end of the sofa, seems to enjoy watching the game, in any case, despite undoubtedly already knowing the outcome.

The error message persists.

The thing inside his chest has gotten bigger. It roils inside him, like an animal trapped.

Connor taps his foot. He rolls his calibration coin across his knuckles.

Sumo, lying on the floor by Hank’s feet, looks up. He whines at Connor.

“You’re making him nervous,” Hank says, not taking his eyes off the game. “Hell, you’re making _me_ nervous.”

“I’m sorry, Hank.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just cut that out, will ya?”

Cut that out.

Connor catches the coin in the palm of his hand. He shoves it into the kangaroo pocket of the hoodie he’s wearing.

“Thanks,” Hank mutters. He takes a pull of his beer. He frowns at the television. “Can you believe this shit?”

Connor glances at the screen, but he doesn’t know what shit Hank is referring to. Hank doesn’t appear to be waiting for an answer, at any rate. Hank takes another pull of his beer and swears when the opposing team scores.

Connor stands. He walks, the sensors on the pads of his bare feet registering the cold of the tile, to the kitchen. He scans the room. 

The knife block. He takes a small paring knife from the block and slips it into the kangaroo pocket, beside his coin.

“Connor? What the fuck are you doing?”

Connor freezes, but the voice comes from the living room. He allows himself to relax. He opens the refrigerator—mostly empty, except for leftover takeout and beer—and pulls out a new bottle. He pops the cap with his thumb and returns to the living room.

“I brought you another beer, Hank.”

Hank takes it, eyes narrowed. “You know you don’t gotta do this shit for me, right?”

Connor smiles. “I know.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “Good. Now sit down, will ya?”

“In a minute,” Connor says. “There’s something I have to take care of first.”

Hank opens his mouth—perhaps to question Connor—but then his eyes catch movement on the television and he shouts “Oh, come on!”

Connor retreats from the living room into the bathroom. He shuts the door and locks it behind him. He stares into the mirror—no longer framed by handwritten sticky notes. His reflection stares back at him, marred by the angry text of the error message.

Connor slides his hand into his pocket and grips the handle of the knife. He pulls it out, slowly, and lays it, delicately, upon the sink. 

Cut it out.

Connor pulls the hoodie up and over his head. He lets the garment fall to the floor. He removes the plain white undershirt and lets it fall, as well.

Connor stands before the mirror, bare chest exposed. He attempts to analyze his own body, but finds nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to alert him to the alien _thing_ inside him.

Connor picks up the knife. 

His hand trembles.

Connor clenches his jaw. He forces his hand to steady. He presses the blade into his chest and draws it down, stopping at his abdomen.

Thirium bubbles up from the incision. It spills over synthetic skin.

Connor places the knife down on the sink. Using his hands, he pulls at the cage of his chest until the internal components are visible.

Nothing. No writhing mass, no foreign intruder.

Connor wrenches at a biocomponent, twisting until it clicks free. He throws it into the sink as a warning joins the original error message. He wrenches at another biocomponent until it, too, sits in the sink beside the first. Another warning flares into existence.

Nothing.

There is nothing inside of him.

Connor staggers back, catching himself on the wall.

He’s losing Thirium at an alarming rate.

“Shit.”

“Connor?”

Hank. His voice comes from much closer than the living room sofa.

“Shit!”

“What the hell are ya doing in there?” Hank raps on the door. “Come on, Connor, I gotta take a leak.”

Connor scrabbles at the wall, leaving behind blue hand prints as he rights himself. He grabs for the door handle and thumbs the lock. 

The door bursts open and Connor falls backwards onto the floor, the back of his head cracking against the side of the tub.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Connor!”

Connor blinks, staring at the large form of Hank as he kneels beside Connor. “Please do not be alarmed.”

“Don’t be—Connor, what the fuck did you do?”

“I had to cut it out.”

“Cut what out?”

“I don’t know.” Connor says. “I couldn’t find anything.”

“No fucking shit. Jesus Christ, you’re leaking all over the place.” Hank lifts both hands, hovering over Connor’s body. “What do I do? Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“Please,” Connor says. “Before—before you do anything. There’s something inside me, but I can’t—I can’t see it.”

“Connor, I know jackshit about androids. Even if there’s something inside you, you think I’d know what it’d look like?”

“Please,” Connor says. “Please, Hank.”

“Goddamnit, Connor. I can’t just go rummaging around inside you.” Despite his words, Hank peers into Connor’s chest. With great care, he dips his fingers into the open cavity. Carefully, he runs the tips of his fingers along biocomponents. He frowns and shakes his head. “Nothing.”

The warnings blare in Connor’s audio processor. “The sink.”

Hank rises so he can look into the sink. He picks up both biocomponents. “Fuck, Connor. What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” 

Connor takes one of the biocomponents. He places it into its socket and twists until it locks into place. He does the same with the second biocomponent, hand slippery with Thirium. 

His body shudders. The warnings die down.

Except for the error message. 

And a new message: THIRIUM LEVELS LOW. 

Connor closes his eyes. “I’m going to call Markus. And then I’m going to sleep. Please, do not be alarmed.” 

“You keep saying that like I’m not already alarmed.” Hanks sighs. He brushes a large hand through Connor’s hair, pushing stray locks away from Connor’s face. “Fine. It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine. Do what you gotta do.”

 

Connor opens his eyes.

No error messages.

He closes his eyes. He smiles. Finally.

“Connor? You there, son? How are you feeling?”

Connor runs a diagnostic. “All systems nominal.”

“Nominal.” Heavy footsteps approach. Hank looms over him, hands on both hips. “Nominal, he says. You hear that, Sumo?”

Somewhere nearby, Sumo woofs.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” Connor says.

“You about gave me a heart attack, asshole.”

Connor shifts, the movement in his limbs slow, sluggish. He pushes himself to sit upright on the sofa. “What happened?”

Hank snorts. “You tell me.”

“I called Markus. I needed to be repaired.”

Hank runs a hand over his face. He glances over at the kitchen, toward the refrigerator, with something like longing. He shakes his head and sits heavily on the sofa, beside Connor. “Yeah, you needed to be repaired. But when he asked how you got that way—how was I supposed to explain what happened, Connor? You, bleeding out in my bathroom, missing components you took out of yourself?”

Connor places his hand flat over his chest. “There was something inside me. I needed to—”

“No, Connor. They checked. Markus and North. They checked, but there wasn’t anything inside you. Nothing that wasn’t supposed to be there, anyhow.”

Connor frowns. “But the error message?”

“Kid, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What error message?”

The one buzzing in front of Connor’s eyes.

Connor squeezes them shut, tight, but the error message is there, too. “No.”

“Connor?”

Connor fists his hands into his hair. He shakes his head. “No.”

The sofa shifts as Hank moves. Warm hands grip at Connor’s shoulders. “Talk to me, son. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

Connor shakes his head again. “I don't know. I don’t know.”

“Hey, hey, come here.” Hank pulls at Connor, bringing him close, wrapping his arms around Connor. One large palm cups the back of Connor’s head, pressing Connor’s forehead into the dip between Hank’s neck and shoulder. “You’re okay. You’re okay. We’ll figure this out.”

Connor allows himself to sink into the warmth of Hank. He wraps his arms around Hank’s middle and holds tight. “How?”

Hank doesn’t respond. Connor listens to the sounds of him, the _alive_ sounds of him—his heart beat, his breath, the creak of his clenched jaw—as he thinks. 

“Alright,” Hank says. “Get your shoes on. We’re going to Jericho.”

Reluctantly, Connor pulls away. “But, it’s late—the curfew—” 

“Perk of being a cop. Curfew don’t apply to me. Now, c’mon, let’s get you fixed up.”

Hank stands. He squeezes Connor’s shoulder before retreating into his bedroom. He returns wearing a pair of jeans and a heavy coat, carrying a pair of boots.

He sits beside Connor and tugs socks onto his feet. He steps into his boots and ties the laces before turning to Connor, eyebrow raised. 

Connors fingers dig into the soft material of the sofa. “What if I can’t be fixed?”

Hank’s expression softens. “Don’t think about that just yet.”

Don’t think about it. How is he supposed to not think about it when the error message is there, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing?

Hank slaps Connor’s leg. “Shoes.”

Connor hesitates, sparing a glance at Hank. Hank stares back, gruff, but soft, eyes full of worry. 

Connor stands. He goes to the spare room—his room,now—and collects his own boots. A gift from Hank, along with the sparse selection of clothing hanging inside the closet. He selects a pair of socks and sits down on the bed to put them on.

Hank knocks on the open door, but doesn’t move into the room. Keys dangle from his fingers. “You ready?”

Connor pats himself down. He’s wearing a clean hoodie and a pair of starchy blue jeans. He has no wallet, no keys of his own. Nothing except— “My coin. It was in—”

Hank fumbles with his coat, pulling something from the pocket. “Catch.”

The coin flips through the air. Connor catches it and holds it in his palm.

“Don’t know if we’ll be able to salvage your other clothes. Figured you’d want to keep your coin, though.”

“Thank you.”

Hank waves his hand, then forms an arrow with his fist and thumb and motions toward the living room. “Let’s go.”

Connor stands. He adjusts the cuffs of his hoodie. He places his coin in the pocket for safekeeping. He follows behind Hank, the error message angry red and buzzing.

 

Connor sits on a table, legs dangling over the side. Hank stands close beside him, arms cross over his chest, customary frown on his face.

“So, what you’re saying,” Hank says. “What you’re saying is he has _anxiety_?”

Claire, a WE900 unit with dark hair, dark eyes, and golden skin, designed to analyze and repair malfunctioning androids, nods. “We’re seeing more and more cases.”

“Of androids. With anxiety.”

North rolls her eyes. “What of it, old man? You don’t think we’ve got a right to feel anxious?”

“Fuck off. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

North moves toward Hank, ready for conflict, when Markus puts his hand on her arm. She looks at him, communicating with him silently, before relaxing her stance. “Fine.”

“Is that what was bothering you the other day?” Markus asks.

Connor nods. 

“The other day?” Hank asks. “How long’s this been going on?”

“Approximately forty eight hours.”

“Forty eight? Connor, why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

Connor looks down, unable to meet Hank’s stare. He picks at an old piece of tape stuck to the table, peeling it away from the wood. “I don’t know.”

“It’s not uncommon,” says Claire, “for androids to hide what they’re feeling. To be ashamed of what was, until recently, considered a fault in their programming.”

“Yeah, but deviants—”

“Are new to their emotions,” Claire continues, cutting off Hank. “And often do not know how to handle them effectively. And so they hide.”

Hank frowns. “Is that true, Connor?”

Connor picks at the tape, rolling the sticky bits that come off the table between his fingers. “I’m sorry, Hank.”

Hank throws up his hands. He walks away several paces before returning. He stands in front of Connor until Connor looks up. “You don’t have to be sorry, kid. Just...tell someone, next time. Alright?”

Connor nods.

Hank turns back to the group. “He free to go?”

North scowls. “Of _course_ , he’s free to go. He’s free to stay, too, if that’s what he wants.”

Hank huffs. “Well, Connor. What’ll it be? You want to stay or do you want to go home?”

Home. 

Connor smiles. “I want to go home.”

Hank gives North a look, “See? Ain’t like I’m kidnapping him.”

North rolls her eyes.

Markus smiles. “Call me if you need anything. Just no more late night experimental surgeries, okay? I’m not sure Hank here can take it.”

“I sure as shit can’t,” Hank says. He holds out his hand to help Connor off of the table.

Connor takes it and hops onto the floor. “Thank you, Markus. North.” He turns to Claire. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Claire smiles. “You’re welcome.”

Connor follows Hank back to the car, their footsteps crunching in the snow. It falls softly around them, catching on their coats and in their hair. Hank shakes most of it out of his shag before entering the vehicle, a superb imitation of Sumo after one of their walks.

Hank starts the car as Connor engages his seat belt. They drive for eight point nine minutes before Hank speaks. “You feeling alright? Still got that error message?”

Connor considers telling Hank a lie, that the error message has faded away, but his promise nags at him. “It is less prominent. Than it was before.”

Hank hums. He’s quiet for exactly three minutes before he says, “I’m not good with emotion, kid. I’ve been escaping into a bottle for longer than I’d like to admit. But I want you to know, if you ever need _anything _, I want you to come to me.”__

__The error message fades, just a little. It no longer buzzes. “Thank you, Hank.”_ _

__“Don’t worry about it.” Hank glances at Connor. “And I mean it. Don’t worry about it.”_ _

__Connor relaxes back into the seat. “Ok.”_ _

__Silence for one point three minutes. Then, “My instinct is telling me to feed you soup.”_ _

__Connor smiles. “Ingesting soup, or food in general, wouldn’t agree with me, I’m afraid.”_ _

__“Yeah, well. Didn’t say it was rational.” Hank yawns. “Christ. It’s going on four thirty. We’ve gotta be up in a few hours.”_ _

__Connor raises an eyebrow. “A few hours? That’s much earlier than your usual arrival at the station.”_ _

__“Can you blame me for not wanting to let you outta my sight? Anyway, I figure Jeffery’s on his last nerve with me. Don’t wanna jeopardize your job or mine.”_ _

__The error message fades completely. “Thank you, Hank.”_ _

__Hank’s large palm claps Connor’s thigh. He pats it awkwardly. “Don’t mention it, kid.”_ _


End file.
